


You called this love,

by Ly_chan415



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Actually please do I feel bad for writing this, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Break Up, But it doesn't happen, Does comfort exist?, Don't Like Don't Read, Dreams, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Futakuchi Kenji, Insecure Oikawa Tooru, Just angst ig, Like they swear once, M/M, Oh wait but it has a happy-ish ending, Please Don't Kill Me, Strangling, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, but is it though, is there even a plot to this, yeah angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ly_chan415/pseuds/Ly_chan415
Summary: And I thought,But is it?
Relationships: Futakuchi Kenji/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	You called this love,

_Please, please, please let him be there._

Oikawa pleads to himself as he runs. He’s late. Two hours of extra practice, a 3-on-3 friendly match with his teammates and even dinner with them. Oikawa completely forgot about the boy waiting for him, waiting to see him. 

_Maybe he wanted to forget_ , Oikawa thinks, and he curses himself. _Not true. Bad, bad Tooru._

_Please, let him be there._

His pace increases as he runs, sprinting to the place where they were meant to meet up. There is rain again, hard, hard rain, drenching Oikawa through his coat, and he begs for Futakuchi to have left already. 

He slows down when he sees the park they were meant to be, and he sees a lone figure sitting on the wooden bench near the vending machine, rain pouring down. He can feel lukewarm rainwater dripping from his eyelashes mixing with his tears. 

The figure turns their head and a car flashes its headlights in the distance and Futakuchi’s face lights up, glistening with cold water, dampened hair crowning his precious face, and the relieved look softening his shivering features made Oikawa’s stomach churn. 

_Why are you so relieved?_

_I’ve made you wait for more than three hours alone._

“Futakuchi-“ 

“I’m glad you’re alright. I thought something happened to you.” 

Something hot burns Oikawa and he takes the boy in his arms, crushing him, taking in his scent, getting drenched under the rain and the lamppost and the clouds. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

His eyes prick again with sharp tears and he swallows. 

“But it’s not okay.” 

“It is. You should prioritise your better friends, people who you actually love over me.” 

_No, no, no, I love you, I love you. Why are you like this? Don’t you understand?_

_But are you sure you love him?_ A voice asks and Oikawa is flooded with insecurity, the silent taboo darkening him. _You’re not meant to love him. You chose this path._

Thunder cackles at his pitiful self. 

—-

It was always like this. 

They started in a relationship to forget the rest of the world. They did it to make the world scornful of them, so that the only things they had were each other. They made sure to acknowledge that love wasn’t the origin of this relationship. 

After all, it was a game. A pitiful game to get rid of their self-loathing and drench it with sickly, unreal feelings which people could call “love”.

But slowly, surely, Oikawa began to care. He began to feel. He began to love, and it was terrifying. 

He didn’t know Futakuchi. He didn’t know how he felt at all. He was sure those warm gazes, those brilliant eyes which gave him serenity, lips so red he could see the vulnerable blood flowing underneath translucent vermillion covers curving into a sweet smile, all of them had to mean something. 

But he could be wrong. The fact that he could be wrong, the fact that all of his feelings were just delusional fantasies, the fact that Futakuchi’s soft gazes were only imaginary. They scared him. 

Oikawa wasn’t sure how he looked in the other boy’s eyes. Did the other boy appreciate him, like Oikawa appreciated him? Like how he worshipped Futakuchi? How he wanted to prize and guard that precious smile? 

Did Futakuchi show others this expression too? 

Did he smile at others like he did in front of Oikawa? 

Weren’t these smiles dedicated to him, and him only? 

The dark, indescribable thing in the bottom of his stomach tugged his heartstrings angrily, hissing like a white-hot blade with water.

_Wasn’t Futakuchi his?_

\---

Oikawa hates himself. 

He has definitely caught feelings and he wants nothing more than to stamp on them and watch them die on the ground. But every time he lifts his foot he sees his emotions cowering in the shadows and his stupid, lenient heart tells him not to kill them. 

Not yet. 

They’re still locked together in their cage. They’re still together and Futakuchi doesn’t leave. They are still clutching onto each other with keyless chains of deceivingly fake love. Oikawa thinks it’s alright like that. 

But he feels anger and frustration, he feels jealous whenever Futakuchi gives that special smile to someone other than him, he feels his hands twitch and burn every time with indescribable anger bubbling and frothing up inside him. 

He simply cannot understand. 

Why is he feeling like this? 

He isn’t meant to fall in love. Didn’t they promise to each other that it would never happen? 

He wants to erase these feelings, he wants to stab them till they bled. 

He looks over and he sees Futakuchi smile next to him, and his heart flutters. 

\---

Anger burns him like poison, and he feels himself tip dangerously over the side of the seesaw, and he hurriedly rights himself. Futakuchi laughs at him in his imagination, feet dangling off the edge of the seesaw as the boy tips the seesaw slightly again, and Oikawa feels the anger building up.

It hurts. 

The anger might kill him, might swim and taint his body before it managed to reach Futakuchi. There was utter pain and horror when Oikawa peered into his heart’s little window, fogged up but interior still visible, he could see relief, he was actually glad that the poison wouldn’t harm Futakuchi first. He wanted to cut out his own heart. He shouldn't feel this way. He should be lying when he says “I love you”. He shouldn’t be putting every single ounce of his simple passion into those words, he shouldn’t be pouring love into every single sentence aiming and targeting the other boy. 

He wanted to be shot by love. 

Instead, he picks up his glass, and knocks the drink back. 

It burns.

\---

He’s mad. 

Everything’s messed up. 

Oikawa can’t handle it. 

His love, his life, everything, it’s going down. 

It’s all Futakuchi, his relationship with him is destroying him. 

He feels exhausted. 

He just wants a normal life, a normal, truthful relationship. What were they? They were saying empty “I love you”s, or rather, Oikawa gave all the love and Futakuchi accepted it and never gave it back. He looks to his side and a couple are sitting in a cafe, fingers intertwined, he looks to the other side and he can see another pair walking, linked arms, he feels sick. 

He wants that. 

Why can’t he have it? 

What was wrong with their relationship? 

What was wrong with Oikawa? 

Nothing. He loved Futakuchi, like how a relationship should work. He was right. 

Then what was wrong with Futakuchi? 

He runs harder, kicking tarmac, feeling pain in his legs, his eyes, his heart. He feels like nails are carving out his heart, hands so familiar and yet so foreign tightening around the pulsing organ, squeezing. 

He wants to sob. 

He doesn’t know how to control himself, his mind is panicking and his brain tells him to stop and think but he can’t, he’s running, and he’s nearly at his destination. 

Okawa stops running when he arrives at the house.

Futakuchi had left the door unlocked for Oikawa. 

He storms in, he’s confused, he’s going mad, he doesn’t know how to think straight. 

He turns, goes up the stairs, third door on the right. He knows it all because he knows this place better than he knows Futakuchi’s heart. 

He slams the door open, momentarily blinded by the sheer brightness of the room, and he sees the infuriating Futakuchi on the bed, sitting down, sipping on water, smiling faintly when he sees Oikawa, expression turning into fear when he sees Oikawa fuming, livid, red. 

“Oi...kawa….”

Oikawa doesn’t know what’s happening. 

Futakuchi doesn’t either. 

What they are both sure of is the sharp smack of skin, and Futakuchi falling back on the bed as a red welt blossoms on his paled skin. What they are both sure of is Oikawa’s hand in the empty air where Futakuchi’s face was. What they are both sure of is the ragged breaths, the sweat dripping off Oikawa’s cold skin and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. 

It’s dead silent. 

Futakuchi is unable to move, he’s shocked, he can’t process what just happened. His jaw aches, his head spins, but he feels a creak in his heart, a little fissure cracked in his heart from the force of the fist against his cheek.

Did Oikawa punch him? 

A betraying sob leaves his throat and he covers his face, murmuring to himself that it was all a dream. 

No, he couldn’t have. Futakuchi loves him. They love each other. 

_What kind of fantasy is this?_ A scratchy voice tells him, and he fights the urge to scream. _He doesn’t love you. This is just to make him happy. He was just bored. He never wanted to be stuck with a whiny little bitch like you. You’re just being stupid and hopeful, he’s not in love with you._

“Oikawa….?” 

He feels force again, on his shoulders this time, and he’s shoved down onto his mattress, no words, just the oppressing aura and deadly hands holding him down. Futakuchi doesn’t know how to struggle. He’s gotten so used to their birdcage, so used to being locked in Oikawa’s arms, that he found comfort in them; he found a safe place. 

He really doesn’t know what to do. It was like his own heaven was crashing upon him enveloping him, kissing him and dropping him into the depths of hell and burning pits. 

_Why are you doing this?_

“Oi-kawa, Oikawa, Oikawa…” 

He tries to move his arms. They don’t budge. The body above him, the tough mass of honed muscle over the years trapped him, forcing his scrambling legs still, and Futakuchi, despite the situation, wishes for those chapped lips to press down against his, with the excuse of shutting Futakuchi up. 

“Wait, wait, Oikawa-” 

There are hands on him. He’s scared. He feels everything, every lie, every vague smile being polished and held to light. He feels his everything being laid abrazen in front of Oikawa. He feels his heart being torn apart for Oikawa to examine his insides. He feels hands on him, he feels those heavenly lips which spit out venom and lies as much as Futakuchi did, he feels heavy pants and he feels the intense gaze which spreads him apart, shows off his sins like jewelry in a box. 

“No, please, Oikawa-” 

His cries are silenced by a forceful kiss, intoxicating, making Futakuchi drunk, and he feels hands temporarily slowing down on his skin, resting on the curve of his hip. He feels hot. He feels hot, and everything is too quick, he still can’t comprehend anything.

“Stop, stop, stop-” 

Futakuchi shakes his head as those lips he cannot reject pepper his neck, biting, kissing, a hand runs its way through silky hair while the other continues to cradle his twitching hip. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t like this kind of Oikawa. He wants to push him off, but even his own arms seem to have restraints on them. He hates it, hates the fear Oikawa’s implanting in him, hates it all. He misses the loving kisses, even if they didn’t have actual love inside, he still misses them because they were gentle, pretentiously kind. 

These kisses, these touches are vulgar. They are primitive instincts, trying to tear everything apart. Oikawa kisses him so raw, so full, so deep, and Futakuchi wants to hide away because he feels starkly exposed, so alone, so terrified. Futakuchi didn’t want to fall for Oikawa any deeper than he already was. A pained cry is wrenched from his throat, he’s shaking, he’s intimidated, petrified by the beast above him.

“Please, Oikawa, please…” 

Hands scrabble at Futakuchi’s shirt, pulling at his collar, yanking hard like reins of a horse, the top button being pulled completely off, leaving split fabric strands in its wake. The second button comes off, and Futakuchi feels the hand on his hip trace up to his stomach, pushing on the navel lightly, then slipping into his shirt. A choked sob escapes Futakuchi’s mouth and he’s begging now, begging for Oikawa to stop, begging with all of his dignity lay open to Oikawa, for Oikawa to step on and to keep. 

He lets out a few desperate breaths in an attempt to calm himself, but nothing happens. Futakuchi’s scared, he’s terrified - he can’t see because love is blind. He sobs, he lets his heart scream in anger, in betrayal, in pain, throbbing with the pitiful love he had for this monster who was threatening to extinguish him, to swallow him up. The hand down his shirt, the unbuttoning fingers were too foreign, the hand tugging on his belt, he didn’t want it, he didn’t want any of it. 

He just wanted it all to stop. 

He wanted to be in the kind Oikawa’s arms again.

He shakes his head as he sobs, weak, weak, weak. 

“Oikawa, please, please, Oi- Tooru, Tooru, Tooru, I’m sorry if I made you angry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, please, stop-” 

Silence. Futakuchi shakes.

And just like that, the hands stop and disappear from his body and are replaced with nothing, and he warily looks up, face stained with ugly tears, chestnut lashes stuck together, breathing hard as he trembles, swollen lip heavily chewed on. 

“Tooru, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

His vision is blurry as he wraps his arms around himself, pulling the opened shirt back to cover his naked torso, just quivering, unable to stop the salty tears decorating his cheeks with salt and gleam. 

“Tooru…?”

The hands disappear from him, and now Oikawa’s head is placed between them, and Oikawa’s shoulders are shaking. 

He’s crying. 

\---

The moment he saw Futakuchi, his vision was red. 

He didn’t know why. 

All the exhaustion, the frustration, anger, everything, every single block of emotions which built up the wall inside his heart; all of it was crumbling, and it was all due to that smiling boy in front of him. He felt stripped of privacy, he felt naked, open, he felt like this boy would be able to see every single one of his blemishes, his faults, and, even worse, the boy wouldn’t say anything about it. 

He didn’t know why he punched Futakuchi. 

But the moment he saw blood, the moment he saw the _deliciously_ frightened expression highlighting pretty features, the moment he tasted fear, the moment he could smell the tension, his hands had reached out and forced the boy to the bed, wrestling limbs which complied to him anyway. 

He wanted to hurt. 

He wanted this boy to feel this pain. 

He shoved him down, touched him even though Futakuchi was crying, he was begging to stop, and Oikawa couldn’t listen, he was driven by anger, by pain, and the younger boy’s voice didn’t reach him.

But everything, everything fell down all over again when Futakuchi said sorry. 

He was slapped back into reality. 

Why did Futakuchi say sorry? 

It was all Oikawa’s own fault, he realised. The anger, the urge to hurt was his mere conscience, nothing was wrong with the boy’s perfect smile, there was nothing wrong about him, he was something Oikawa loved. 

He hated him at the same time, yes, but there was love too. The love twisted into hate. Love was terrifying. He feared it. He hated it. It made him hate Futakuchi too. 

It was his fault. 

Oikawa’s hands fell away, and he was slowly kneeling to the floor at Futakuchi’s feet, like a worshipper and a god, an angel, simple, pure devotion for porcelain skin and a beautiful smile.

A strained whimper left his throat as his face fell into his hands, the black fires which shrivelled his insides dying out, turning into warm orange embers again. 

Futakuchi’s talking to him, he can’t hear him, but he still sees tear-stained cheeks, he still sees the wary look, he can feel the hesitation reeking in the air. 

“Tooru…?” 

At the voice, Oikawa weakly reached out, dragging the boy in his arms, sobbing. 

Why was he crying? Futakuchi should be crying. 

He still gripped tighter on the boy. 

The gesture wasn’t returned, and Futakuchi, tense and rigid, gently, but surely, pushed him off. 

“Maybe you should go home for today.” 

Oikawa feels his heartstrings snap, and his heart drops. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

_Why do you keep saying it’s alright?_

\---

When Oikawa leaves, Futakuchi doesn’t send him off. 

Instead, he picks himself shakily from the bed, stumbles to the bathroom, and looks in the mirror, a little hurt gasp escaping his throat when he sees the purple bruise on what once used to be smooth moonlit skin. He clutches at his chest, breath panicked, head spinning, sparks in his eyes, suffocating, drowning. 

He can’t turn to Oikawa for help this time. 

“No, no, no…” 

He slides to his knees, cradling his broken face, wailing for love. 

\---

Futakuchi became distant. 

They haven’t seen each other for three weeks now.

It was to be expected. 

It hurt. 

But Oikawa couldn’t say anything, he was mortified with himself, he felt overwhelming guilt towards the younger boy, he felt suffocated even more than before. 

If he could rewind time, he would kill himself before he could even harm Futakuchi. 

He keeps on telling himself that, hoping it would become true. 

Oikawa drinks again.

He pushes down the emotion tinting his vision with brilliant red. 

\---

  
  


Oikawa stands still. 

He sees black in his eyes, blind to love, blind to everything around him, longing for the smell of peppermint, longing for the warmth, longing for a kiss, longing for Futakuchi to stimulate his other senses, to create vision again. Because right now, all Oikawa can see is darkness. It’s terrifying. And he is getting addicted to Futakuchi in an unhealthy way, in a manner which makes him want to slap some sense into himself and his delirious fantasies. 

It’s black. 

Then, light seeps in. He turns, and he sees Futakuchi and he wants to tell him to run away, yet he also wants to go up to him and chase him. 

“Kenji.” He tries to form other words, but the approaching figure only becomes larger, and he sees the brown-haired boy smile at him. 

Oikawa feels his arms rise, and he desperately tries to stop himself, trying to force them down, but he can’t. They rise and stop at Futakuchi’s neck, and a trickle of sweat runs down Oikawa’s face. His hands, without his consent, wrap around the lilied throat, the brunet smiling as restraints of human flesh clenched around his neck, their skin like milk and tea against each other. 

“What-” 

Oikawa tries to fling his hands off, but they’re stuck to Futakuchi. 

And then, 

They start to squeeze. 

All thoughts of fear and confusion disappear from Oikawa, and he feels a strange sense of sadistic fascination in watching his own hands choke the other boy. He experimentally squeezes harder, and a desperate gasp and cough drops from the other boy’s open mouth, saliva drooling down his chin and landing on Oikawa’s wrists. 

“Kenji…” 

His voice is raw, even to his own ears, as he tightens his grip in satisfaction, the muscles contracting under his palms as Futakuchi tries to breathe, to get some air in his lungs, but Oikawa laughs crazily, mixing with Futakuchi’s panting and retching. He grins in a twisted way as he throttles the brunet, the feeling of Futakuchi clawing at his restricting arms, the scrabbling of nails on his skin making him drunk on ecstasy and exhilaration. 

Eventually, after a few moments of utter madness, Futakuchi goes limp, and Oikawa drops the unmoving body from his grip. 

He laughs, and laughs at the dead body in front of him, twirling around, stepping around the brunet, enjoying the bruises on the pale skin- 

Oikawa wakes up with a gasp, tears flowing from his face. 

He whips his head around, making sure he was in his own room and not the room of darkness he was in. The place where he strangled Futakuchi. 

A horrified sob escapes from him, and he grips the bedsheets. Why did he dream of strangling the other boy? Why did he want to strangle Futakuchi? You hurt him already. Wasn’t that enough? 

And what was that murky emotion inside him which made him enjoy choking the other boy? 

Oikawa shivered, head in his hands. 

Why did he find pleasure in watching the other boy choke to death? 

\---

“So you decided to discuss your dream where you strangled someone?” 

Futakuchi swirls his straw in his glass of juice, ice clanking like metal chains in the dark red substance which reminded Oikawa of the liquid which had dripped from the boy’s mouth in his terrible dream. Oikawa sat on his own bed, his own glass of water in his hands. He stares at his distorted reflection and fights the urge to stick his tongue out at it. 

Oikawa looks down at his feet, regret trying to make him apologise in every possible moment. Futakuchi acts completely differently now. He seems more detached. There’s distance forcefully created between them.

“Yeah.” 

The brunet stops chewing on his straw and slowly lifts his face up. The beautiful face contorts into something distorted and ugly, not snarling, not glaring, not hating, no.

God, he looks like prey about to be killed on the spot. He has a look in his eyes which tells Oikawa to hurt him as much as he wants, pain him, cut him, strangle him, but he would suffer in return. This is his revenge. This is Oikawa’s punishment for hurting Futakuchi. Oikawa knows he would suffer under this strain. The sheer thought of the nightmare was enough to make him want to throw up. 

Oikawa feels his heart stop beating, fear racking his nerves as he shook. 

_Who is this boy?_

The expression melts from the other boy’s face, and a smile, the facade of a liar, lights up his face. Oikawa has never felt more relieved. 

Futakuchi leans back, crossing his legs, and Oikawa is staring, because the hem of his shirt was lifted up and showing off unblemished skin and- 

A sick feeling hurls in his stomach when vivid flashes of his dream engulfs him. 

He remembers his hands on the pearly skin. He remembers hurting it. He remembers happiness. 

Oikawa didn't realize the boy was talking to him until a light tap on his knee made his gaze snap up in alarm. 

“What-” 

“Ah, so you weren't paying attention.” 

“Sorry.” 

Futakuchi shrugs. He takes a long sip of his drink again, and Oikawa hurriedly does the same so that he doesn't have to talk. 

“It’s fine. I was just asking whether you thought that discussing your dream with the person you strangled in said dream was a good idea.” 

Oikawa answers hesitantly. 

“Well, no.” 

“God. If you thought it was a smart idea, I would be concerned for you.”

Futakuchi watches the older wince, and it breaks his heart, he wants to apologise for sounding rude, because Oikawa looks upset. He hates it. He hates himself. But he has to continue this act. He has to pretend he doesn’t care.

“I already am concerned for myself though.”

Futakuchi snorts, and ice clinks on the side of the glass again. Oikawa watched a drop of precipitation sliding down the side of the cup and pooling on the table. The younger boy leans over and stares at the surface of his own drink. 

“Maybe it just means that you hate me so much that you want to murder me? That’s understandable.” 

Oikawa grips his shirt, alarmed and panicked. He doesn’t notice Futakuchi’s hands trembling. All he can think about is how to tell him that he doesn’t want to hurt him. Not intentionally. 

He does not hate this boy. 

“Futakuchi, I do not hate you.” 

_But am I sure?_ Oikawa thinks.

But saying love didn’t exist between them was a bit painful.

“Are you sure?” 

Futakuchi almost sounds like he’s posing a deeper question. 

“Of course I’m-”

“Oikawa-san, are you sure?”

He leans closer, blinking up with cold tempting eyes. Oikawa takes in a shaky breath. The formalities of “-san” makes him nervous - he’s not used to hearing his name like that from Futakuchi.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” 

_Am I though?_

“So you like me?” 

Futakuchi stares at him, and Oikawa can’t lie in front of those caramel eyes he cherished so much. They were darkened, like the caramel was burnt into a black, smouldering, sticky mess, and Oikawa wanted those eyes to regain their beautiful light once more, he wanted it so, so badly.

“I love you.” 

He hears a sharp intake of breath and he raises his gaze to the other boy’s face. Futakuchi’s eyes brimmed with tears and Oikawa felt his world tumble and crash, he heard his heart groan. Beautiful, beautiful caramel eyes, drowning, light disappearing, lids closing and opening over the dulled irises in a hurried attempt to bat the tears away. 

Futakuchi shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, and Oikawa wants nothing more than to comfort the boy, to litter his skin with marks and kisses, and wants nothing more than to sing love in his ear.

The younger boy still wants to put on an act. He still wants to bar himself away from Oikawa, because he’s just too afraid he would fall again. He makes sure his voice doesn’t tremble as he speaks. 

“You’re a,” 

He stands, and he slowly walks over to where Oikawa sat, and before Oikawa could say anything, there were soft hands on his wrist and a warm body gingerly slid onto his lap, a perfectly sculpted face leaning inches away from his own. His breath is robbed from his lungs. 

No.

“Futakuchi, what-” 

_“Liar.”_

His hands are forced up, jerked all of a sudden, and before Oikawa could yank them away, his grip is on Futakuchi’s throat and his eyes widen. 

“Futakuchi.” 

The brunet ignores him and sinks his nails into the flesh on Oikawa’s arm, making him hiss and tense the hands around Futakuchi’s throat. Oikawa lets out a half gasp, haf scream. He doesn’t want to hurt him, the crimson sheet in his eyes dances alluringly, seducing Oikawa helplessly into throttling the other boy harder. 

The sadistic impulse is too much. He can’t fight it. His mind goes blank as he lets his hands literally squeeze the life out of Futakuchi, he can hear Futakuchi struggling, he can see Futakuchi’s mouth hanging open in a futile attempt for air. He just simply squeezes. 

The scratching on his skin makes him squeeze harder, choking, Futakuchi feels himself getting light-headed, he feels pressure on his neck and he wants to struggle so badly. Blood trickles from Oikawa’s wrist from Futakuchi’s nails but they both don’t notice the warm liquid dripping down, painting their clothes with scarlet. 

They stay like that, Oikawa with his hands choking Futakuchi, Futakuchi writhing weakly on his lap without letting go of the older man’s wrists. 

But eventually, Futakuchi’s struggles get smaller. And then, 

His hands drop from Oikawa’s wrists.

Oikawa freezes. 

“...Futakuchi?” 

The boy’s holding his throat, panting as he collapsed on Oikawa’s chest, trying to take in oxygen. The boy looks proud despite the situation, despite coughing and wheezing, like he managed to win an argument. 

“You sadist. Liar.”

Oikawa almost pushes the boy off when he realises that his hands were still loosely surrounding the boy’s neck, and with trembling arms, he lowered them down so they fell against Futakuchi’s legs. 

“I’m sorry- I didn’t know what came over me, I-” 

“You hate me. You wouldn’t strangle someone you love.” 

He latches onto Futakuchi’s shoulders, nearly sending the boy toppling backwards as he shakes him in denial. Oikawa doesn’t know what’s going on, it’s terrifying, he doesn’t have control of his own limbs, he’s locked like they always were in the birdcage, but right now Oikawa’s alone. 

“No! This is the first time I’ve strangled someone, honestly, I don’t know why-” 

His hands are enveloped in Futakuchi’s, and Futakuchi holds them dearly to his chest, seemingly thinking about something. Oikawa feels his heart beat erratically, waiting in dread at what the other boy might say. Worst of all, he can feel heat spread from Futakuchi’s fingertips in a disgusting reminder of what this boy meant to Oikawa. 

“Maybe you hate everyone else. Maybe you just love me, and this is your way of truthful affection.”

His voice is quiet, but it reeks of madness and danger. The handprint on his throat is ugly, painting the skin with bruised crimson and mulberry, and Oikawa feels a churning in his gut. 

He did that. 

But that’s not a symbol of love. That’s not “truthful affection”.

Then what is? They kiss. But is it love? They lie within those touches, don’t they? What’s love? It’s not the touch of skin as they latch onto each other like they were trying to escape drowning on a sinking ship. They don’t love. 

How do they express love anymore? 

Oikawa feels his brain numb as he tries to reply to Futakuchi. 

“What-” 

“Maybe you love me.”

Oikawa’s words slip out faster than he can register them. 

“Of course I do.” 

There are hands, reaching out like a desperate baby looking for its mother, grabbing at Oikawa’s wrists again. Oikawa lets out a sharp yell and yanks his arms back from the brunet, who wears a petrified, heart-wrenching, choked look on his face, forlorn, rejected. He tries again, and Oikawa pushes him off his lap, making the younger boy fall like a rag doll onto the carpet. The figure trembles as he reaches out, crawling back onto his knees as he tries to reach for Oikawa again. 

“Then strangle me again. If choking me means affection, then kill me.” 

Oikawa’s sadistic impulses shiver in excitement. They’re hungry. 

He screams at his thoughts. 

_Go away._

_Get out._

They merely laugh and settle for tinting his vision a dark vermeil again. 

“Futakuchi-” 

“Please, I just want you to love me. I want you to love me, please, I just- I just” 

He’s crying again, agony breaking him, tears breaking past his closed eyelids, his heart throbs, Futakuchi just wants Oikawa, he needs reassurance of love, he just needs the human warmth Oikawa gave him, he wants Oikawa. 

“Futakuchi, calm down-” 

Futakuchi shakes his head as he clutches onto Oikawa’s waist, sobbing.

“I can’t. It hurts. I need you to love me, I need you to- to-”

Without saying anything, Oikawa takes the boy in his arms, gingerly, delicately, like he was trying to catch a snowflake with his hands, unsure about everything, he didn’t know what they wanted from each other anymore. They were helpless, children trying to navigate through the forest of an evil witch, trying to find their way back home when they didn’t have one in the first place. 

He sighs, sighs at the maze of love they can’t solve, he sighs at their lost faces in the dark. 

\---

“I think… maybe we really weren’t meant to be.” 

A strangled sob is pulled out of Futakuchi’s throat in a way which makes Oikawa think that he’s choking him all over again. He hates it. He wants to take back those words but he simply can’t. 

It’s true.

They weren’t meant to be. 

Otherwise why would they be crying in each other’s arms?

“No, wait, please.” 

The boy wails at him, pleading, refusing to hear, but Oikawa gently caresses the hands which clutch onto his shirt. 

“I think we aren’t ready to be honest.” 

“No, wait, I am ready, I’ll do anything, please, I don’t mind if you hurt me, please,” 

“I’m not ready. I don’t want to hurt you. I don't. I can’t stand it.” 

Futakuchi shakes his head, his world, his universe, his everything’s falling, nothing’s right anymore, it all hurts, and- 

_I thought you promised._

“I don’t mind, you can hurt me all you want, just stay,” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Oikawa slowly falls away from his grip and Futakuchi’s panicked, he’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving-

“No, no, please, don’t leave me,” 

“When we are both ready, I’ll come back, and maybe we can have a better relationship.” 

A hesitant kiss on the forehead follows and Futakuchi’s bawling now. He grabs onto his lifeline, but even that’s slipping, it’s disappearing, it’s melting away, 

“I need you, I don’t need anything else, please, I love you, don’t go,” 

A hand ghosts its fingers on chestnut hair, and a final kiss lands on his forehead again and god, everything’s so blurry because the tears won’t stop and he’s suffocating and why is he so weak? 

Oikawa’s eyes blur too. 

Goddammit, he doesn’t want to leave. 

  
  


“I love you too. “ 

\--- 

Fog hides the argentine moon within its wispy folds, hunting for prey to devour, trying to steal the last of the stars before the dawn broke apart the labyrinth of night. 

As Oikawa sits on the bench, staring up at the trapped moon within the membranes of the clouds, the trees whisper rumours about him, silently conferring, creating a deafening commotion in Oikawa’s ears. He watches silence being projected in his sight, there’s mist, stealing vision, stealing stars and sucking into a black hole. The scene flits with bare branches and crunchy leaves which snap and shriek. 

He shuts his eyes and takes a sip of his canned coffee. 

This park was everything. 

Memories run rampage in his mind, leaving to helplessly process each day he spent and passed with nothing to save him, all in vain. He wants to forget them, he wants to escape from the clutches of murderous nightmares, he has so many countless thoughts which clog up his thoughts, loathing, hating the dark closet which was pried open in his brain, letting fury and madness cause chaos and disaster inside him, ripping him out, tearing him apart with every breath he took. 

He takes another sip. 

He hears a crunch of leaves, coming closer, closer, until they stop next to the bench. He doesn’t look up, until a familiar, gentle touch offers hell to him from the side, and stupid, stupid Oikawa looks up to meet hazel. 

His breath stops. 

Light shines through the fog, dawn breaks, yawning as it tore the dark apart, yanking out from the horizon, struggling to escape. 

Oikawa’s wordless.

Daylight hits the person in front of him, and he sees the beautiful, beautiful face he longed to see for the past two years. 

The sky, soars high, kicks the moon away and welcomes the sun with lightning blue robe, kisses the feet of the solitary ruler, the peace of its smile inadvertently robbing Oikawa of breath.

He traces the last of glitter trail, the last of the fading stars, his eyes wanting to follow them into nothingness, but the hand on his shoulder, pooling warmth into his body when it shouldn’t, stops him. 

He wants to know why the boy was there. He wants to know why the boy still managed to take his breath away. He wants to know the meaning of that superficial breath, fresh, pure. He wants to know, he’s eager for it, he just wants to know why they both ended up in the same place again after all this time.

Before, he remembers rain. He remembers sitting on that bench with the same boy, kissing under the same trail of stars, kissing under a lonely moon. If his memories are willing to bring him back to all of it, he’ll take it. Even if that means nothing had changed since the past. He’s willing to drown in the black sea of memoirs. Anything for Futakuchi.

He feels like a captive in Futakuchi’s eyes. He’s fallen so deep without realising, he feels like he isn’t allowed to breathe under that undeniably divine gaze, he allows himself to count before he looks away. 

One.

There’s light in Futakuchi’s eyes which highlight the entire world with gleam. 

Two.

They’re unfairly gorgeous, yet they sound like they’re announcing doom, like they’re mixing within Oikawa’s heart’s sound. 

Three.

The lampposts shut off their lights, leaving the park in a slightly dimmed light, but still visible from the blurry sunrise. 

But they’re still looking into each other’s eyes, eyes bright, swimming with tears.

The bars slowly melt off as Futakuchi leans close to him, tracing his cheek with soft fingertips, and it makes him shiver. The wind tickles his other cheek, imitating the brunet, freely, and it breaks Oikawa to the point he bursts into tears. 

The mourning blaze of the sun asks to burn him to ash, he agrees, he doesn’t want this endless ache to engulf him anymore. 

His heart struggles. It wants to reach out to Futakuchi, to feel the body within his arms again for those days he lost. 

The last star, still hanging on, reminds him painfully of his wish, his promise, the reflected image of Futakuchi. 

_The reflected image of you._

It spreads faint warmth in his thoughts, dispersing the simple cold which had entangled within him. It heals his wounds. The rain, the rain which Futakuchi drenches him with, warm and sweet, cures him, and Oikawa can feel his hands again. He can reach out to grab the hope slipping through his clenched fists. 

The golden glow encases them in an ethereal light, and they’re finally back together, even if it was wrong to be back, even if the whole universe gave them warning signs, this dream they both dreamed of, the simple ideal they wanted for all these years, just the warmth and touch and silence, brings them more comfort than all the lying kisses from years ago. 

They thought it would be difficult to be normal, to be honest, the easy path was to lie, to hide from the truth because it was too foreign. 

The moon blows kisses as it sinks. 

Time flows back to them, compensation for the years spent drifting apart. 

Their fleeting, undefined love returns in a bright glow, a lasting reverberation.

Oikawa smiles. 

This, this is what he wanted.

This so-called reality which was now a dream. 

This warmth. 

_Futakuchi._

“I’m back.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to be a sequel-backstory-something for Seesaw game but I gave up on doing that so if it still has some references from Seesaw game then I'm sorry  
> Anyway eek this was depressing to write  
> Thanks for reading! Have a nice day :DD


End file.
